


Empty Heart

by Oakwyrm



Category: Thrilling Intent (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, Horrible Teachers, Sad Markus, Young Markus, the imps are the real mvp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 12:43:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8208439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oakwyrm/pseuds/Oakwyrm
Summary: Sometimes school can get to be too much. Sometimes school is always too much. Young Markus Velafi was not exempt from this rule. In fact he may very well have been the gold standard.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Who's venting? I'm not venting what are you talking about hahahaha...
> 
> Everyone who read my mini-rant in the discord chat: Bullshit

Markus nervously straightened his collar, his hands shaking slightly. He tired to tell himself it was all right. He'd spent hours last night preparing this spell, he was actually marginally proud of it. Surely they'd see that. It'd be fine. He took a deep breath and stepped out in front of his instructors.

They stared down at him and signalled for him to begin. Carefully he began to weave the magic, moving fluidly as the room filled with dancing fires that gave no heat. It had been a tricky thing to master but he'd gotten it eventually. He stopped for a split second before the final move, the fires around the room all collectively flickering before he summoned enough courage to light a torch-sized cold flame in his open hands.

The world seemed to freeze for a second as the fire roared to life. Markus tried not to panic under the scrutiny of the instructors. He'd done this before he'd been able to control it ten times flawlessly he couldn't fail _now_. Taking a wavering step forwards he steadied himself and held the flame for a second before it sputtered and vanished. He silently cursed, letting the smaller flames around the room flicker and die as well. Hesitantly he looked up at the instructors.

“The assignment was to create and hold a cold flame,” one of them said, looking down her nose at him. Markus gaped, wanting to protest, but his throat seemed stuck and he couldn't make a sound. He'd held several cold flames throughout the presentations. He'd done it. He'd made just one mistake. In the overall grand sense he'd completed the assignment he should be passing right now.

“The first flames were... acceptable. They were in the vague direction of correct. Work on this during the next hour, we'll see you afterwards for a repeat,” said the other, looking positively bored.

“But-” Markus finally found his voice. “I... I still have half of my personal style project to practise!” he protested. Then he silently cursed himself for not daring to mention that he'd held perfectly good cold flames through the whole presentation and that they probably should at least be acknowledging that. And he technically wasn't lying he was only halfway done with the personal style and flair presentation he was supposed to give. It was one he was actually really excited about since he was entirely in charge of it himself.

“Very well, get that done and use the rest of the hour to perfect the cold flame,” the first instructor spoke again. Markus felt a shock run through him. It felt a little like someone had hit the back of his head with a brick.

They just... assumed that he'd be done that quickly. That what he was planning was simple enough to take between five and fifteen minutes to complete. But his voice had forsaken him again and he bowed himself silently out of the room.

For the next forty minutes he sank himself into the familiar comfort of his own particular style of spell casting. He lit fires on his fingers, drew pictures in the air, wrote his name over and over in that silly font along with various other things. He made things glitter with the flick of a wrist, spun and twirled and delighted in being _himself._

The moment was abruptly broken when the door opened and one of the instructors walked in. The first one. Not that that surprised Markus he sometimes wondered whether the second cared about anything, let alone him. The instructor raised an eyebrow.

“Where's your wand?” she asked. Markus blinked.

“My what?” he asked. She strode up to the project plan he'd hung on the wall.

“Your wand, Mr. Velafi,” she said. “All students perform the style project with a wand,” he gaped.

“Can I do it without one?” he asked hesitantly. She shook her head.

“You will use a wand to ensure we can judge you fairly, just like everyone else,” she answered. Markus sat down heavily, feeling something in his chest shatter.

“But this is... this is a personal style project. I'm supposed to showcase my personal style of spell casting!” he actually managed to protest this time. The instructor turned to him.

“And you are, within the borders of wand usage. Just like everyone else,” she turned and left before he could say another thing. Slowly and quietly he got up and walked over to his plan. Mechanically he edited it to work entirely through a wand. The presentation went by in a blur all he could clearly recall was completely ignoring the instructors' demands for him to show them he actually could create a cold flame. He'd shown them. He'd held ten of the things and failed with one.

He left the hall without a word and bolted back to his room. As soon as he was safe behind the large wooden door he collapsed. He didn't even bother to pull his legs up on to the bed he just lay there in an awkwardly angled position, staring out over his room. He felt like something was trying to crush his chest. The dinner gong rang somewhere off in the compound but Markus ignored it. He didn't have an appetite at the moment.

The walls of the coven's headquarters felt stifling. He felt cramped. He wanted to cry and kick and scream but he couldn't. Whether he was just completely botching a spell or the instructor were dismissing his actual successes no one ever listened to him here.

He was about to turn over when a familiar sound and a puff of sulphur smelling smoke filled the room. He flicked his wrist absent mindedly to open the window and get the smoke out as he rose slowly and reluctantly to stare at the imps. There were four of them, all looking up at him, holding a large piece of paper above their heads.

“I didn't summon you,” he said tiredly. The one that seemed to have designated themself as leader stepped forwards. They gibbered at him in that language that he somehow understood. What they said loosely translated to 'we summoned ourselves'. Markus leaned his forehead in his hands.

“You can't do that,” he sighed. The leader imp crossed their arms with a miffed expression on their face before grabbing what the other three were holding and pushing it towards Markus.

He took it and looked at it. Macaroni was plastered haphazardly onto the paper, creating a somehow flowing image of nothing. Markus got up sluggishly from his place on the bed and placed it on the far wall with the rest. He stood for a moment looking at the collections before his knees gave out underneath him and he finally began to cry. The imps gibbered worriedly, crowding around him, their tiny arms giving tiny hugs in attempted comfort.

Markus hiccuped and sobbed for how long he didn't know, all he knew was that the sun had time to go down while he was still crying. Abruptly now that he and cried himself out he was exhausted. He let himself fall backwards onto the cold stone floor and no sooner was he vaguely horizontal before he'd fallen into a deep sleep.

The imps gibbered to each other for a moment before seemingly coming to a decision. The next morning Markus woke in his own bed with a warm breakfast that smelled vaguely of brimstone waiting on his bedside table.

**Author's Note:**

> So yes this is a thing. I dunno I needed an outlet my art teacher fucking sucks.


End file.
